Of all the stories Shūzō Oshimi has written (or will ever write) Aku no Hana is hailed as his masterpiece. For many fans, nothing will ever surpass the experience of reading it.
I discovered Oshimi’s stories in late 2020, and began reading them in reverse chronological order, which means that Aku no Hana was one of the last stories I read. I had high expectations, since it was supposed to be his best work, but I was sorely disappointed. I was caught flat-footed by the low start, and I couldn’t predict I would find a story so full of holes, plot contrivances, or characters so hollow of personality.
If this was any other manga by any other author, I would’ve given up after five chapters, but since Shūzō Oshimi had enough goodwill for me to give him the benefit of the doubt, I pushed through to the end. To his credit, the series did improve: the art became stronger, the characters gained more depth, and the story grew more compelling, but that’s because it was hard to sink lower than those opening chapters.
Granted, I am not the target audience for this manga, but that was never an impediment to enjoy his stories before. The foundation of this story has more holes than a Swiss cheese, and it’s riddled with plot contrivances. Not that I mind one or two contrivances sprinkled in the story (for example, in Fullmetal Alchemist, as the Elric brothers are traveling back to Resembool, they casually see Dr. Marcoh outside the window. How convenient for them, right?) These coincidences should be avoided, lest it turns the narrative implausible for the readers.
Characterization was another issue for me. Most characters aren’t fully formed in the first few chapters of any story, but these ones still felt barely half-formed after ten. Each one was defined by a single gimmick: Takao Kasuga was obsessed with Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal, Nanako Saeki was the popular girl in class, and Sawa Nakamura was the anti social outcast. These characteristics are enough to tell them apart from one another, but they don’t make them feel like complete human beings.
The plot constantly relies on coincidences in several situations to generate tension: everything from the gym bag falling on its own, to Takao stopping his bike in front of Nakamura when he barely even acknowledges her existence, or Nakamura always knowing where to find Takao (like she’s omnipresent) or the fact that there’s a nice big river in town, but Takao won’t get rid of the clothes to avoid being blackmailed… There’s just so many it’s easy to lose track of them all.
These contrived coincidences completely shatter my suspension of disbelief. What frustrates me is that none of these problems would be especially difficult to fix. It wouldn’t require changing the core character dynamics, just giving the coincidences plausible scaffolding so they feel like organic outcomes.
For example: instead of the gym bag falling mysteriously by itself, it would’ve been more believable if Takao himself noticed it tucked away and consciously decided to take it. That single adjustment would immediately give him more agency and responsibility for his actions.
Later, feeling guilty for stealing the gym uniform and humiliating Saeki in front of the class, Takao leaves school on his bicycle, screaming like a madman, passing by several people, until, for some unknown reason, he stops in front of Nakamura (who is just sitting there). Not because she’s blocking the road, though. Why does he stop the bike?! This chick means nothing to him! What’s the incentive other than the plot requires him to?
She then reveals she saw him stealing the gym uniform, and orders him to take her to the “other side of the mountain” in exchange for her silence. Instead of denying everything, he runs away, abandoning the bike.
Do you really expect me to believe this premise when it hinges on behavior that feels fundamentally inhuman? The logical reaction, no, the human reaction would be to deny the accusation and eliminate the evidence to avoid the blackmail.
To the author’s credit, chapter 3 devotes a decent amount of pages to the boy trying to get rid of the gym uniform, but his paranoia gets the best of him. At first, he imagines everyone in the city watching him, judging him, so he can’t discard the bag. Yet, he also can’t bring himself to return the uniform to where he found it, again for reasons the story never convincingly explains. He makes one last attempt – a clever one, actually – to throw the gym uniform into the library incinerator, but Nakamura stops him.
What Takao fails to realize is that she has no real leverage over him. She’s an outcast with no social credibility. No one would believe her word if she decided to tell the truth about the theft. There is no real blackmail. It’s all in his head… And I don’t find it particularly compelling, because it strips him of agency, turning him into a puppet to be dragged through the plot. Any victim of bullying would do anything in their power to avoid their tormentor, but Takao gives into her immediately. For me, that behavior never felt psychologically convincing.
It would’ve been far more effective if Nakamura had recorded the theft on her smartphone and used it to blackmail Takao. No matter how strong-willed someone believes themselves to be, if their greatest fear is being exposed as a pervert to their entire town, and another person possesses undeniable proof of their crime, they’re going to comply immediately. A recording of the theft would’ve been as psychologically devastating to Takao as the cage of rats was to Winston Smith in Nineteen Eighty-Four... and it would be way more believable.
With actual proof, Takao throwing the clothes into the river would accomplish nothing. Nakamura could still expose him at any moment, because the blackmail would’ve been airtight.
The story seems to be cognizant of the fact that you cannot accuse someone without evidence. Takao is perfectly capable of arguing this very fact when Nakamura is accused of stealing money, and again, when the cops accuse him of another crime. In both cases, there’s no proof. So why doesn’t this same logic apply when Nakamura bullies him? She has no evidence! It often feels as though he behaves stupidly on purpose, because the story needs him to.
Another issue I have is with Nakamura’s ubiquitous nature. This weirdo knows where Takao is at all times, which is just unbelievable. I mean, I would believe that she would follow him around at certain times, but always knowing where he is, when he is alone, stretches credibility to the breaking point.
Other things about this story bother me quite a bit, but they’re related to characterization, and not so much with the plot. Both Takao and Nakamura feel less like complete human beings and more like “one-trick ponies”. Takao carries a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal around, and Nakamura calls people “shit-bugs”. That’s basically the extent of their personalities. We aren’t privy to their inner emotional lives (I’m not sure they even have inner lives). Strangely enough, even though both characters were based on real people, they don’t feel authentic. I don’t think that matters to the story, though, it’s just like a fun piece of trivia.
The story seems to be cognizant of the fact that you cannot accuse someone without evidence. Takao is perfectly capable of arguing this very fact when Nakamura is accused of stealing money, and again, when the cops accuse him of another crime. In both cases, there’s no proof. So why doesn’t this same logic apply when Nakamura bullies him? She has no evidence! It often feels as though he behaves stupidly on purpose, because the story needs him to.
Another issue I have is with Nakamura’s ubiquitous nature. This weirdo knows where Takao is at all times, which is just unbelievable. I mean, I would believe that she would follow him around at certain times, but always knowing where he is, when he is alone, stretches credibility to the breaking point.
Other things about this story bother me quite a bit, but they’re related to characterization, and not so much with the plot. Both Takao and Nakamura feel less like complete human beings and more like “one-trick ponies”. Takao carries a copy of Les Fleurs du Mal around, and Nakamura calls people “shit-bugs”. That’s basically the extent of their personalities. We aren’t privy to their inner emotional lives (I’m not sure they even have inner lives). Strangely enough, even though both characters were based on real people, they don’t feel authentic. I don’t think that matters to the story, though, it’s just like a fun piece of trivia.
Ironically, the only character who felt truly human to me was Saeki. She seemed to possess a real life, a functioning Brain, and genuine emotions. That is especially funny considering Shūzō Oshimi has stated that Saeki was created entirely from scratch, rather than being based on a real person.
To be fair, if I had given up after chapter 5, I would’ve missed later developments that add context to these characters. Still, much of that information that we should’ve been privy to early on arrives too late for me to care. The early chapters leave the cast feeling hollow when they should’ve already possessed a richer inner life.
To be fair, if I had given up after chapter 5, I would’ve missed later developments that add context to these characters. Still, much of that information that we should’ve been privy to early on arrives too late for me to care. The early chapters leave the cast feeling hollow when they should’ve already possessed a richer inner life.
